Revenge is Sweet
by MamaWeasley
Summary: COMPLETE! Ron Weasley and...Millicent Bulstrode? How in the world did that happen? And what is Millicent doing working for the Order, anyway?
1. How It All Started

Disclaimer: The people and places found in this story are owned by J.K. Rowling. Lucky woman. I'm making no money; I just enjoy twisting Rowling's characters. 

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Chapter One

How It All Started

My kids always ask me to tell them how I came over to Dumbledore's side during the War, or how I met their father. I always tell them that those are stories for when they're older. I never tell them it's because those stories have a lot of "adult" themes.

Well, they're getting to be adults now. Zinnia's finished Hogwarts already; she'll be marrying Terry Boot's oldest son in the fall. Lobelia's in her seventh year and I guess she's theoretically an adult, too. But still, I'm reluctant to tell them.

It's all very personal, I guess. Embarrassing, in many ways. And yetthey should know. So I'm writing it all down for posterity. Maybe I'll even give this to my children before I die.

I'm not much of a writer, so I hope this makes sense.

If you were to ask me for a one-sentence summary of my early life, I would simply say this: I wanted to be appreciated. There were, on occasion, times when I went beyond that and thought that I wanted to actually be admired, but I was far too practical to consider that possibility most of the time.

My sad story begins at birth. My Dad is a big guy whose build could put Malfoy's cronies to shame. My Mum was, evidently, a very nice lady; she just happened to be a bit too small.

When it was time to deliver, my Mum pushed and pushed and pushed. She pushed until the midwives could see the top of my head, but she couldn't get me out any farther than that.

My shoulders were stuck. The midwives had checked my head size before delivery and told Mum that her pelvis was big enough. The head is, after all, the biggest part of the baby—usually. Not with me. I had these darn big shoulders that stuck in Mum and caused all sorts of problems.

I don't know how they finally got me out, but they did, somehow. Mum, unfortunately, haemorrhaged as a result of all the interventions and died before they could stop the bleeding.

Dad never remarried—it was just him and me. Well, I had a nanny for the first few years, but I hardly count her as one of the family. She never stood up for me when strangers commented on me, which happened a lot. I guess they thought I was older than I was—I was rather large for my age—and treated me accordingly.

"Is she slow? She doesn't speak very well." (Well of course, I don't, I'm only two, you ninny.)

"Why don't you act your age? You're behaving like a three-year-old." (Guess what, lady. I _am_ three.)

Luckily my Dad's colleagues appreciated my build a little more. They said I would be a great Beater, just like my Dad. I guess it's no surprise that I grew up liking Quidditch. How can you not, when Quidditch players are the only ones who like you?

Things got worse when I started school. It isn't uncommon for wizards to have their children tutored at home, but for those who can't afford that option, there are schools for the younger set. Mine was Oxford Wizarding Primary. Our teacher was a Squib, as most primary teachers in the wizarding world are. Most wizards don't stoop so low as to teach little ones; most Muggles would have trouble understanding why they had to teach Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts instead of pounds (not to mention the whole quill thing).

I went off to school by Floo every morning and learned about reading and writing and math and stuff like that. Not too different from Muggle Primary school, except that science education was woefully neglected. 

I wasn't particularly bright, but I wasn't the class idiot either. Nice and average. Except for my build. And my face. Both of which marked me "as ugly as sin" and led to lots of teasing. 

My name didn't help much, either. My Mum must have been delirious when she decided on Millicent' not unlikely, considering that she was dying at the time. In any case, this was cause for more harassment. Needless to say, I did the only natural thing and beat up the people who teased me. I could, after all; I was bigger than they were. I got to be a bit of a bully.

I was excited to get my Hogwarts letter. I would never excel at academics, I knew, but I hoped that I would find a magical subject in which I could be top of the class. Then, perhaps, I would be appreciated. The Sorting Hat remarked on my desire to succeed and put me in Slytherin.

Of course, things didn't work out that way I wanted; I was, once again, nice and average. Except, of course, for my build and my face. At Hogwarts, luckily, I was ignored most of the time, rather than teased. That was a marked improvement over my early childhood.

Things changed in my fifth year.

It started one night in the Slytherin common room. I was heading out, on my way to the library, when Vincent Crabbe ran into the room and right into me. We stood there for a while, in close proximity to each other, staring. Then I went my way and he went his, and that was the end of it, right? Wrong.

The next day, he asked me if I would go on a walk with him so that he could apologize properly. We were down by the lake when he told me that he'd looked at me before, but he'd never really _seen_ me until that night, never really realized before how beautiful I was. Who would have thought that Crabbe could be so eloquent? That night he kissed me. I was in love.

He roped me into going along with Malfoy and his gang. What can I say? It was fun. I could bully to my heart's content and get away with it. Crabbe and I had lots of fun together: beating people up; having sex behind the greenhouses; beating people up; having sex in Hagrid's garden; beating people up; having sex up in the Astronomy Tower.

It wasn't until my sixth year that I started changing my tune. Contrary to popular opinion, this had nothing to do with the fact that Umbridge was gone and I could no longer be a bully. I think my misgivings began when I realized that Crabbe hadn't owled me over the summer (even though he wanted to sleep with me as soon as we got back to Hogwarts). 

And then there was the conversation that I overheard in October.

I was drifting off to sleep one night when I realized that I'd left my Runes homework in the common room. I slipped out of bed and was walking down the hall when I heard my boyfriend's voice.

"It wasn't the assignment I was expecting, but it hasn't been too bad."

"Glad you think so. I would have _died_ if it had been me," drawled the voice of Draco Malfoy.

What in the world were they talking about? I couldn't recall any terrible homework assignments of late. I froze when Crabbe continued.

"Well, if nothing else, she's a great piece of ass. Outstanding in the sack."

"I suppose that's a plus," Malfoy said. "Thanks for putting up with her, Crabbe. You've done a good job; she's on our side now. Now you just need to convince her that she wants to join the Dark Lord."

"I dunno, Draco. She'll be a hard sell. She likes beating people up, but killing is another cup o' tea. She's a softie, deep down. And she's got no family members who tie her to us. I need more lines for buttering her up."

"How about, You've got the best breasts in Hogwarts'?" The sound of laughter chased me down the hallway as I fled back to my room.

So that was what this was all about, was it? Getting me to join He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Vincent didn't love me. I couldn't believe it. I'd wanted admiration; I thought he'd given it to me. I was wrong. He'd only loved the fact that I'd spread my legs for him every time I'd asked.

But it all made sense. For starters, I should have known that Crabbe couldn't have come up with any of those witty compliments on his own. His main goal in life had always been to please Malfoy—and Malfoy's main goal in life had always been to follow the Dark Lord. I marveled that I hadn't seen it sooner.

Unfortunately for Mr. Crabbe, I had learned a thing or two in Slytherin. I was going to make him regret taking advantage of me. Ah, but what to do? And whom should I ask for help? I thought for a long time, but the answer didn't hit me until I was drifting off to sleep.


	2. Revenge

****

Chapter Two

Revenge

The next day, my plan of action was clear. Many girls, finding themselves in my shoes, would hex their boyfriend and then break up with him. That would have been a rather unwise choice in my situation. 

Crabbe was too close to Malfoy, and Malfoy held far too much influence in Slytherin house. At Hogwarts in general, in fact. If I gave Vincent what he deserved, I'd never get anywhere in life.

Nor did I dare let anyone know that I had overheard the conversation. I knew that Crabbe hadn't yet taken the Dark Mark–I'd seen him naked enough to be positive of that–but I knew that the Dark Lord recruited liberally amongst the children of his followers; it was the best way to get spies at Hogwarts. If I came out strongly against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, I would be endangering my life.

I wasn't even sure that I could break up with Crabbe without attracting ire. I (and half of Slytherin house) knew that fear was part of the reason Pansy was still seeing Draco. She loved the presents he gave her, of course, but I knew only too well that she would have gladly done without them if it meant being free of the ferret.

Logically speaking, it seemed that the only way to break free of Crabbe without cutting myself off from the rest of the wizarding world was to work against Voldemort and Malfoy. 

I didn't mind working against the Dark Lord. For one thing, as Crabbe had said, the thought of killing nauseated me. I didn't mind doing all sorts of stuff to achieve my aims–I really did belong in Slytherin–but I also believed that you could take things too far, and the Death Eaters did. I wasn't anti-Muggle, for one thing, though I certainly didn't mention my beliefs to any of my Slytherin compatriots.

It was harder to get over my aversion to working against Malfoy. He was actually quite kind to his friends; as long as I remained on his good side, he'd treat me well. Yet, for my plan to work, I'd have to secretly oppose him. Unfortunately, that meant a major lifestyle change.

Potter was the logical person to approach, but now that we were at NEWT level, I didn't have classes with him any more. One of his friends would have to do. 

And so, as my Runes class was dismissed that afternoon, I tapped Hermione Granger on the shoulder. "UmmmHermione?"

She shot me a withering glare. I supposed I deserved it, considering what I'd done with the Inquisitorial Squad. Oh, and there was the matter of the little brawl we'd had in the dueling club

"I really, really need help with the homework assignment. I don't suppose"

She snorted and turned away from me, then stomped out the door. Behind me, Pansy Parkinson giggled. "What do you expect from a Gryffindor?"

What indeed? Well, I hoped she had enough sense to wait until she was alone to read the note I'd slipped her. I'd spent hours pondering exactly what to say, but in the end I'd settled on a brief but to-the-point missive:

Hermione (and allies):

I am sick and tired of being used by Malfoy and crew. Will work for food (or respect).

M.B.

A little less than a week later, I received a brief message calling me into Snape's office. This wasn't too unusual for a Slytherin; he was, after all, Head of House. However, I was a little edgy when I knocked on his door. From what I'd overheard, he was fairly high in the hierarchy of Death Eaters.

He ushered me inside without a word, came right up to me, whipped out his wand, and said the word I never expected. "Legilimens!"

He was in my head, looking through my memories. He saw the night I overheard Crabbe and Malfoy; saw me in my room, crying into my pillow. Saw me vowing revenge. Swearing never to join the Dark Lord. He was going to see me writing the note to Hermione next

Then Snape was gone from my head. He spat out a string of curses, rubbing his nose. Evidently I'd punched him in the face as part of a subconscious effort to get him out of my mind.

"You are excused," he said sourly as he applied a handkerchief to his nose to staunch the flow of blood.

Now what? Was the Dark Lord going to kill me for not wanting to join? Surely Snape would tell him what he had seenI spent the next two days fearing for my life.

Dumbledore called me into his office later. Evidently the brilliant Miss Granger had deigned to give him the note. I had never really considered him as the head of the resistance movement; to me, that had always been Harry Potter. 

Would Dumbledore trust me? Would I be killed by Voldemort before I could be of any use?

He did trust me. He wanted me to continue as Crabbe's girlfriend, if that wasn't too abhorrent to me. It was, but I figured I could put up with it if that's what it took. 

And since it wouldn't be good for people to see me associating with Dumbledore on a regular basis, he wanted me to report my information toSnape, of all people.

I was in shock. "But Snape is a"

"I know _exactly_ what Professor Snape is," said Dumbledore gently. "Unlike Mr. Malfoy and friends, who only think they know him."

You could have knocked me over with a feather.

My role as spy continued for the remainder of sixth year. Once again, Crabbe and I did not see each other over the summer; I looked forward to resuming my espionage when seventh year came.

Unfortunately, at the beginning of seventh year I learned that my services as a spy were no longer needed. Dumbledore had a better mole–Draco Malfoy, of all people. He and I were going to get private tuition in Defence work from the esteemed Harry Potter. Dumbledore thought that it wouldn't be wise for us to join the D.A., since we needed to maintain our credibility in Slytherin, but he wanted us to be trained nonetheless.

I broke up with Crabbe. I didn't need to hang around him for intelligence purposes any more, and I no longer feared Draco's reprisal. That was a relief, I tell you! Malfoy broke up with Pansy, and somehow managed to match her up with Crabbe; they seemed happy enough. 

During the course of our Defence lessons, Draco found out why I'd turned against Crabbe and apologized. He'd been ordered to befriend any possible prospects, especially those who were ambitious, friendless, or poor. I can certainly see why he thought me a likely prospect.

Seventh year flew by. I finished Hogwarts with a miserable four NEWTs. I did fine on the practical exams, but the theory finished me off every time.

Everyone had predicted that Voldemort would finish Harry Potter off before he left school, but it hadn't happened. Actually, it made sense to me; he was too well protected at Hogwarts.

I couldn't get a job at the Ministry due to my poor marks, so Dad got me a job as booking secretary for his team, Puddlemere United. That's a fancy way to say that I sold tickets. I thought I would be bored to death, but Dumbledore told me he hoped it would be otherwise–Quidditch players talked a lot and there were several Death Eaters playing in the league. I was to keep my eyes and ears open.

So I became a member of the Order of the Phoenix. I didn't associate with the other members much, didn't really get to know them at all. Just watched and listened and reported on my own corner of the world.

It was mid-January when I heard the words. They could have referred to anything, but I knew right away what they meant. Oddly enough, it was Crabbe whom I overheard. He and Goyle were reserve Beaters for the Wimbourne Wasps; they were playing Puddlemere that night and didn't realize I was sitting on the bench right behind them.

"Can't wait for Valentine's Day," he said happily to Goyle. "Can't wait to Bludger the little Seeker into the ground."

Goyle laughed. "Too bad he doesn't have a sweetie-pie," he remarked. "I would just love to send his girl his bollocks on a platter"

That was all I needed to hear. I rushed down to the ticket office, locked myself in, and pulled out the mirror I used to communicate with headquarters.

Arthur Weasley was the one on the other end of the line. He scratched his bald spot after hearing the news. "Are you sure they're talking about an attack, not a Quidditch game?" he asked, a note of disbelief in his voice.

"Check the calendar. Valentine's Day is a Monday," I replied. "The league _never_ plays on Mondays."

"Ah!" he said, comprehension dawning in his eyes. "Thank you, Miss Bulstrode. I'll report this immediately."

I heard from Dumbledore later. He was immensely pleased. Draco had discovered where the ambush was going to take place, but hadn't been able to learn the date. The Order now had all the information it needed.

So it was that, on the fourteenth of February, the members of the Order of the Phoenix took position just east of Hogsmeade station. I had never fully understood the size of the Order until that day; I'd only talked to half a dozen of them. There were close to a hundred people there.

Harry took his position as bait, meandering slowly from Hogsmeade village towards the station. We knew where the Dark Lord had cast the sensor spell; as soon as Harry set foot on the spot, Voldemort and his Death Eaters Apparated in, eager to attack.

They were only surprised for a short while, and they fought like demons. We lost a bunch of people that day; not just the weaklings, but good people, strong people. In all honesty, the only reason I survived was because I was hit with a stray Stupefy. Susan Bones died right next to me and fell on top of my body. Don't ask me what happened at the end; I was still out cold.

Amazingly, I was hardly hurt at all. After being revived, I found I only had a few bruises and one broken finger. I didn't remember getting that, so I assume that someone stepped on me while I was down. These injuries were quickly healed, of course, so I was free to attend the victory party.


	3. Victory or Defeat?

****

Chapter Three

Victory–or Defeat?

Ah, yes, the party. Parts of it I will never forget. Unfortunately, the parts I want to remember are the ones I can't.

The students were away from Hogwarts on an "extended surprise field trip"– Dumbledore had wanted them away from the school in case the fighting spread that far. So, at the request of Harry Potter, the celebration was held in the Gryffindor common room.

I'd never been in Gryffindor before. It looked much cozier than Slytherin. Draco made some comment about it being "too red", but the color scheme didn't bother me all that much. I felt out of place, though. Draco and I had always been separate from the rest of the Order. It made sense, I guess, since we wouldn't normally associate with those people in real life. Those restrictions were a thing of the past now, but I still felt awkward in a room of strangers.

Draco, of course, was no stranger to me; unfortunately, he was also no stranger to parties, and was currently making himself comfortable in the middle of a group of girls. I found a comfortable corner by the window and prepared myself for a long night. Let me put that last bit in plain English: I secured myself a glass and two bottles of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey (which I stashed behind the easy chair) and prepared to drink myself into oblivion.

I wasn't alone for long, though. It was only a few minutes before Ron Weasley approached me, glass in hand, and said loudly, "Hi Bulstrode, Harry wanted me to make sure that you didn't feel left out." He added, in a whisper, "Actually, I really want to keep away from Hannah Abbot because we just broke up two days ago. You don't mind a little company though, do you?"

"No," I replied, feeling a bit stupid. I couldn't decide which was worse: talking to a complete stranger or being completely out of the loop.

After a long and uncomfortable silence, Ron said, "Sowhat sort of job do you have nowadays?"

"I work for Puddlemere United," I said tersely.

"Ooh, what position?"

I rolled my eyes. "Ticket seller, okay?"

I thought he would laugh. He didn't. He grinned; not an evil grin, mind, but an excited one. "Wow. I bet you get to see a lot of games!"

The talk was all Quidditch for a while. I refilled our cups with Firewhiskey when they ran out (which they did all too frequently) and we chatted comfortably. Quidditch was something I'd lived and breathed all of my life; as long as we stayed on that topic, I'd be fine.

Then the music started. They'd turned the volume up terribly loud–I guess some people enjoy dancing only if they can _feel_ the beat. Ron and I were shouting at each other: "What was that? I didn't hear you!"–"I just asked you to repeat yourself, I didn't catch your question!"

Finally he grabbed what was left of the Ogden's–just a bottomful in one bottle–and gestured for me to follow him. So I did. We went upstairs, into a room marked "First Years". 

"This was my room for seven years," he said, slamming the door to block out the music. "That was my bed over there. That was Harry's. Neville, Dean, Seamus," he continued, pointing to the three beds across the room. Then he walked over to the window. "Come here, check out the view. Bet you didn't have a view like this from your dormitory."

"No," I said, taking in the sight of the moonlit grounds. "We had a porthole looking into the lake. If we were lucky, one of the giant squid's tentacles would be slapped up against it when we opened the curtains."

His arm wrapped around my shoulders. He was just the right height to do that comfortably. I looked at him and realized that I could look _up_ at him–I'd never really done that to a man before. For once I did not feel too tall.

His other arm was wrapped around my waist now and he was pulling me closer. He kissed me eagerly; I kissed him desperately. It had been far too long since I'd been alone with a man.

I wish I could tell you that I enjoyed the rest of the night. Maybe I did. Frankly, I don't remember anything else from that point on.

What I do remember is waking up the next morning with a splitting headache. I was naked, and right next to me was a very naked Ron Weasley. He looked pretty good–I wouldn't have minded another go with him–but I figured he probably wouldn't want me unless he was dead drunk, so I dressed and left. I hoped he wouldn't regret spending the night with a girl who looked like a hag.

In any case, I thought that was the last time I'd see him. I was wrong.


	4. Arrangements

****

Chapter Four

Arrangements

Three weeks later my dad came into my bedroom, wondering if anything was wrong. See, I'm a morning person, and I never, _never_, stay in bed after nine o'clock unless I'm terribly ill.

He found me curled up in my chair, crying. My period was a week late and I'd just done the diagnostic spell that morning. No doubt about it; I was pregnant.

People tell me that they would never talk to their father about things like that, but I did. I guess he had always both father and mother to me. We had a good long talk about everything that had happened and he didn't lecture me at all. Good old Dad.

In the wizarding world, of course, one simply does not have a child outside of wedlock. Any witch who tried that would be shunned–unable to find a job, among other things. And, contrary to what Muggles believe, there is no such thing as a pregnancy termination spell or potion. Pregnancy is strongly linked to earth magic; aborting a child would seriously endanger the witch's magical abilities.

This left me with only two alternatives: I could either marry Ron Weasley, or I could find another man to marry me. Considering that I hadn't had a date for the last two years, the first alternative seemed far more likely. Unfortunately I hadn't a clue as to how to approach the esteemed Mr. Weasley.

Luckily, Dad was on my side. "I'll talk to him first," he said. "Break the news. You come along in, say, twenty minutes or so."

I waited about twenty _seconds_ after Dad apparated to perform the Disillusionment Charm I'd learned from Harry. Then I followed him. I _am_ a Slytherin, after all.

Dad was knocking on the door of the Burrow. A short, plump woman who could only be Molly Weasley was talking to him. I crept forward to overhear the conversation. "Well, my daughter tells me he follows the Chudley Cannons religiously, and I'd like to have a word with him about their strategies," Dad was saying.

A few minutes later Ron appeared, looking eager for Quidditch talk. Dad steered him down the lane, ambling along at an easy pace. "Actually, this is about Millicent," he said seriously.

"Oh," Ron replied, surprised. "She–she hasn't had any bad side effects of the battle, has she?"

"No," said my father with a sigh, "Just side effects from the party that followed."

Ron turned red. "Such as"

"Pregnancy."

Ron's mouth opened and shut soundlessly several times. Finally he managed to stammer, "As inas inhaving a baby?"

"That is the standard definition of pregnancy," said my father quietly.

"Oh Merlin, I thought that with Voldemort dead I wouldn't get into any more scrapes. Mum's going to kill me," he moaned. He stopped suddenly and looked seriously at Dad. "Speaking of killing me, is there a compelling reason that you're not beating me to death?"

My father smiled quietly. He did look imposing–he was as tall as Ron and about twice as wide–but he had always been a big softie. He'd been a Hufflepuff, in fact. "Umactually," he said, suddenly very interested in a small pebble on the roadside, "that would be rather hypocritical of me, seeing as I did the same thing at your age"

Ron smiled back at him shyly. "Ah. Well, I suppose you won't be doing me in then. And maybe Mum will forbear too, seeing as she can stop nagging me to settle down. How soon should it be, do you think? I'll need to borrow some money to buy a ring."

"I can give you Priscilla's old ring, if you like. Millicent's mother, you know. Or I can give you the money for a new ring if you prefer. Best not to start marriage being in debt," Dad said in a practical tone.

Ron flushed. "ErI guess that would do. She wouldn't mind her mum's ring, would she?"

"Goodness, no. She's always been very practical about things."

I slipped behind a hedge, removed the Disillusionment charm, and Apparated to a point ten feet away from them.

"Why, hello, sweetheart!" said my father tenderly.

Ron looked at me apologetically. It struck me that he felt sorrier for me than for himself. I suddenly had hope that I might have a decent life after all.

Dad left so that we could "make arrangements by ourselves", as he put it. After he apparated away we got down to business.

Business was all it was. Ron said he would marry me (it was a statement rather than a question) and we settled on a date one week away. 

We also discussed living arrangements. Neither of us made much money, which meant that we'd end up living with his parents or mine. In the end, we agreed that my father's house was less crowded and would be more suitable.

In all the time we were talking we never even touched each other.


	5. Wedding Bells

Chapter Five  
  
Wedding Bells  
  
We got married at the Burrow. I'd expected his family to make a big stink over the whole thing but...well, Weasleys are Weasleys, fertile as rabbits. This sort of wedding was hardly a novelty to them.  
  
After the ceremony, I had to sit through a "celebratory" dinner. There were lots of people there—both Arthur and Molly are from large families—and I'd never been comfortable in crowds. I survived, somehow.  
  
Afterwards we apparated back to my house. I showed him my room, which I'd fixed up to accommodate two people. We engaged in small talk about the décor for a while, then lapsed into an awkward silence.  
  
It was Ron who spoke first. "I...I'm sorry I had to inflict myself on you for the rest of your life."  
  
I stared at my shoes. "I'm sorry that of all the girls you ever slept with, you had to end up with the ugliest."  
  
He strode over to me and grabbed my shoulders firmly. "Don't you ever say that again!" he commanded.  
  
"Don't deny it," I said sullenly.  
  
"Oh, but I will," he said softly. "Until I met you, I didn't realize what I liked in a woman. Most of my girlfriends were built like sticks. I was afraid to be anything but gentle for fear of...of snapping them in half!" I giggled at first, but the look on his face was completely serious. The earnestness turned to guilt as he continued to gaze at me. "I don't really remember much about the night we spent together..."  
  
"Neither do I," I interrupted.  
  
"But I do have a fuzzy recollection that it was rather rough-and-tumble, and I liked it," he said with a smirk.  
  
"But I'm still not a supermodel," I said.  
  
"Who is?" he asked with a shrug. "Every woman that I've dated has had some good points and some bad ones. The other girls I've...umm...been intimate with all had small breasts, for example. Whereas you...um..." He blushed as his gaze dropped to the low-cut neckline of my wedding robes; obviously, he liked well-endowed women.  
  
"You really want me?" I asked incredulously. In response, he took me in his arms and showed me that he did.  
  
***  
  
At some point we realized that we were both thoroughly exhausted and downright starving. Not surprising, considering that we'd been going at it for several hours. We went downstairs to the kitchen to see what was left in the cupboards.  
  
"Hey, Bul...er," Ron broke off lamely.  
  
I looked up from the cupboard I was digging through. "What's that?"  
  
"Er, I guess I can't call you Bulstrode any more," he said. "That's what I've always called you. Even Crabbe called you that. Don't you ever go by your first name?"  
  
I rolled my eyes. "Bulstrode isn't a pretty name, but it's heaps better than Millicent. I hate my first name."  
  
"Oh." He was silent for a while—considering the possibilities, I guess. Finally he said, "Is Millie all right?"  
  
I rolled the name around in my head a bit. Millie. Millie Weasley. No, that wasn't too terrible. It actually sounded...feminine. Cute, even. Much better than my real name, which I'd always thought was better suited for someone's ninety-year-old spinster aunt. "I think that will work," I said after a while.  
  
"Good," he said with finality. "So, Millie, did you find anything to eat?"  
  
I opened some tins of soup and we chatted about names, of all things, as we ate. I told him that, if I had a girl, I wanted her to have a name that was beautiful. Maybe a floral name, if we could find one that wasn't tainted with unpleasant associations. Between the two of us we ruled out Pansy, Narcissa, Lily, and Petunia. We decided on Daisy.  
  
If the child ended up being a boy, Ron insisted, he would have a name that was not too common, but not too uncommon either. In other words, not Fred or George but also nothing like Draco. We couldn't come up with a boy's name but, as I pointed out, we still had quite a bit of time to think about things.  
  
Now that my stomach was full, my mind was finally functioning again. I suddenly remembered what I had planned to do tonight.  
  
"Hold on a minute," I said. I raced upstairs, dug through my desk drawer, and found the envelope. When I returned to the kitchen, I handed it to my husband. "I almost forgot. Here's your wedding present."  
  
He opened it, puzzled. I wish I could have taken a photograph of the moment when he pulled out the stack of tickets. His jaw dropped. After he'd flicked through the pile, he looked up at me in glowing admiration. "Millie! This is the best present ever!" And then he flushed and stared at the table. "I didn't get you anything," he finally mumbled.  
  
I was damned if I was going to let him spoil my perfect wedding night. "You got me a husband," I said. "I was starting to wonder if I would ever have one of those."  
  
He looked at me shyly and gave me a peck on the nose.  
  
"And besides," I added, suddenly realizing the source of his embarrassment, "I only had to buy one of the tickets. I get a free pair to every game."  
  
"Oh," he said with obvious relief. Turning back to the stack, he began flipping through them more slowly. "Two tickets for Puddlemere versus the Pride of Portree. Two for Puddlemere versus the Wimbourne Wasps. Two for Puddlemere versus the Holyfield Harpies. Two for...no, three for Puddlemere versus the Chudley Cannons! What's the extra ticket for?"  
  
"I thought you might like to invite Harry," I said quietly.  
  
"Aww, Millie," he said with a sigh, "Are you sure you haven't known me all my life?"  
  
Someone once told me that it was easy to keep a man satisfied—you just had to take care of his two appetites. Ron's a little more complex than that. He does need sex and food, of course, but he needs a little more. Just a little more. Top those two ingredients off with a couple of friends and as much Quidditch as possible and you have one happy man. 


	6. The Card

Chapter Six  
The Card  
  
Unfortunately, neither Ron nor I got any vacation from work, so two days after our wedding we both had to return to our respective offices. Mr. Perkins had retired from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office the previous year, so Ron was working as his father's assistant.  
  
I no longer minded my job as booking secretary. It was an easy job, so I'd be able to last until the end of the season despite being pregnant. Also, it was close to home, which meant that I didn't have to apparate every day. I know they say apparition is perfectly safe when you're pregnant, but I'm a bit paranoid.  
  
Dad returned home a week later. He'd been staying at the Burrow (in Ron's old room, no less) to give us a little time to adjust to each other. Now we had to adjust to having him around as part of the dynamic. Actually, it ended up not being too hard; he and Ron got along just fine.  
  
By Wednesday of the first week it became clear that, despite his position, Ron had no idea what Muggles were like. He hadn't taken Muggle Studies; he hadn't even interacted with Muggles on a regular basis. I was determined to teach him.  
  
If you look for Puddlemere on a modern map, you won't find it. That's because it's not really a town any more. It used to be a wizard settlement, almost big enough to rival Hogsmeade. Unfortunately, it was more or less decimated during the Goblin Rebellions during the late 1600s. Even though most of the survivors moved to other areas, the Quidditch stadium remained. As far as I know, Dad and I are the only wizards living in the immediate area now; his teammates Apparate in from other parts of Britain.  
  
The reason I tell you this is so you will understand how surrounded we are with Muggles here. We do most of our shopping in Muggle stores. (I own Muggle clothes for those expeditions, something I never admitted to my Slytherin compatriots.)  
  
Puddlemere stadium is about halfway between Banbury and Chipping Norton in Oxfordshire, but our cottage was closer to Banbury, so that's where we bought our food. Every time I went to town, I took my husband with me.  
  
Ron was entranced by everything. He found Muggle culture almost as fun as Quidditch. We had several "dates" a week—nothing romantic, just me showing him the grocer's, the druggist, or the baker's. I sincerely hoped that he'd end up being somewhat more knowledgeable about his job than his father was.  
  
A few weeks passed, and I couldn't have been happier with my new husband. He certainly seemed entranced with me.  
  
Then I found it—a small card, in a plain envelope, stuffed between the mattress and the box spring on Ron's side of the bed. I opened it, puzzled, and read the message scrawled within.  
  
***  
  
Dear Ron,  
  
I was pleased to hear about your recent engagement.  
  
I know as well as anyone that you probably are feeling a little upset by the circumstances. It seems like only a few years ago I was in the same situation. Forced to marry—for me, a Muggle, of all people. Someone who didn't know anything about "our world". And yet it worked out quite well, as you very well know.  
  
Let me give you some advice that has worked well in our household.  
  
The secret to a happy marriage doesn't lie in finding the magic person to marry; it's all about being the magic person for your spouse.  
  
Love,  
  
Uncle Herb  
  
***  
  
It took me a while to digest the contents of the note. The implications hit me all of a sudden. All those things he'd said to me—all those sweet, loving things—he didn't really mean them. He was just saying them to keep me happy. Just like Crabbe.  
  
When Ron returned from work that day, he found me curled up in bed, sobbing.  
  
"What's wrong, Millie?" he asked, wiping the tears from my cheeks.  
  
"You didn't really mean those things, did you?" I asked viciously.  
  
"What things?" he asked, puzzled.  
  
"You know, about how I have a nice body and how you like my cooking and all that!" I spat, throwing the crumpled note at his chest.  
  
He glanced down at the paper in his hand and comprehension dawned in his eyes. "You think I was lying, don't you?"  
  
I nodded.  
  
"But I wasn't. It was just a matter of choices, you see. Given a choice between complaining about my day at the office or complimenting your dinner, I chose the compliment. Given a choice between nagging you to clean the bathroom and admiring your body, I chose to admire your body."  
  
I glared at him. Since I obviously hadn't been won over yet, Ron switched to logic. "If I didn't like your cooking, would I eat so much of it?" My scowl didn't soften, so he continued, "If I wasn't attracted to you, would we be having sex two or three times a day?"  
  
Finally convinced, I burst into tears. Ron sat down on the bed wrapped his arms around me. I was surprised to see a tear running down his cheek.  
  
"Ron, I hurt you, didn't I? I...I should have trusted you."  
  
"Never mind that. It's just—I was scared. When I came in and saw you lying here crying, I thought that—that something had happened to the baby. I wouldn't have said this on Valentine's Day; I wouldn't have believed it then. I'll say it now, though. I want you to have my baby."  
  
We didn't get around to eating dinner until eight o'clock that night.  
  
I wish I could say that we never fought again. Of course you know that wasn't the case: Ron and I are both rather bull-headed at times. But after that day I never felt even the smallest smidgen of hatred towards him. Frustration and annoyance, yes. But never hatred or fear. 


	7. The Hand of Fate

Chapter Seven  
The Hand of Fate  
  
In April, all at once, things started happening. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement finally got around to interviewing us about the battle as we'd seen it. Also, they asked about the things we'd done during our days in the Order. They used Veritaserum; I was petrified, but they assured me it wouldn't do any harm to the baby  
  
A week or two after that, there was a grand ceremony honoring the members of the Order of the Phoenix. The Ministry unveiled the memorial to those who had fallen during the war. And then, to my surprise, they began handing out honors.  
  
Ceremonial thanks were given to Dumbledore (who already held the Order of Merlin, first class, and couldn't be offered anything better). The Order of Merlin, first class, was awarded to Harry Potter, Severus Snape, and Arthur Weasley.  
  
Then the Order of Merlin second class...Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, and Ron Weasley (I applauded and cheered as vigorously as possible)...Minerva McGonagall, Rubeus Hagrid...I couldn't believe how many names they were calling. Not that those people didn't all deserve the award, mind, it just seemed like a crowd was gathering on the stand. And then I heard it: "Millicent Bulstrode Weasley". My name. They wanted me to get up there and accept an award and shake Fudge's hand and all that.  
  
I walked dazedly up to the dais and received the medal and the large envelope which I assumed contained a certificate. My pregnancy hormones must have been running rampant, because I couldn't stop crying. Of course, Dad wasn't pregnant and he sure seemed to be wiping his eyes a lot.  
  
Afterwards we went home and Dad told me to open the envelope.  
  
"It's a certificate, right?" I asked as I tried to gently pry open the flap. (Next to me, my husband was busy ripping his envelope open with abandon.)  
  
"I think they usually put something else in there," he said mildly.  
  
I think Ron and I stopped breathing at the same time. The certificate was beautiful and glorious and magical and all that, but underneath it was...a cheque. And not a piddly one, either. One hundred thousand galleons, they gave us. One hundred thousand galleons each.  
  
Ron and Dad and I had our own private victory party that night. Dad retired to his room at a fairly reasonable hour, leaving me and my husband alone for our own personal celebration.  
  
I remember what happened that night. Don't ask me to tell you though.  
  
Of course, Dad knew that we were going to be moving soon. The cottage was already a little small for three adults, and adding a baby wouldn't make it any larger. Now that we had funds, we were in the market for a house.  
  
I didn't want to move too far, and Ron was happy to oblige me. In fact, we already knew which house we wanted to buy.  
  
It was a Muggle house—old, empty, derelict, but with the promise of great splendor. An old Victorian-era house, fairly large, though not large enough to be called a mansion. The grounds were sizable.  
  
We'd walked by it often; it was just off the road into Banbury. We'd talked about it wistfully, eyeing the "For Sale" sign and wishing we had enough money. Now we did. Two hundred thousand Galleons was over a million Muggle pounds—more than enough to buy the place outright, even after the goblins' outrageous exchange fees.  
  
The house would need some fixing, but hey, that's what magic is for, isn't it?  
  
I thought life couldn't be any more wonderful. I was wrong.  
  
At the end of May, people decided that they wanted Dumbledore to be Minister of Magic. They ousted Fudge from office. Of course Dumbledore has always hated politics; he wouldn't have anything to do with the job. They tried to recruit Harry, but he wanted to get out of the spotlight; they tried Severus Snape, but he hated anything to do with public life. So they elected Arthur Weasley. My father-in-law.  
  
Of course, this meant that Ron's whole family suddenly gained a certain amount of prestige. It had considerable effect on my husband, in particular, though. You see, he had been his father's assistant. When his father left the department, he suddenly found himself promoted to the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.  
  
Now all we needed for a perfect life was a baby. 


	8. Weasley Gardens

Chapter Eight  
Weasley Gardens  
  
Sometime in July, Ron's Dad passed what came to be known as the Wizarding Repopulation Act. In essence, it required all witches and wizards capable of childbearing to produce two children in the next five years. Since we were almost halfway to that goal, we paid it little attention.  
  
At any other time, Ron and I would have taken great delight at the flurry of marriages that followed this law. However, we had so much going on in our own lives that it was hard to pay much attention to what was happening to other people.  
  
By October the house was repaired enough to move into. The outside was finished, and the downstairs was more or less decorated; upstairs, only the master bedroom was complete.  
  
We figured that the house ought to have a name, but couldn't think of anything fancy enough to suit the décor. Finally, in a fit of desperation, we named it Weasley Gardens.  
  
I spent most of my last month of pregnancy redoing the nursery.  
  
I wish I could say that labor was a breeze, that my daughter slipped right out. Of course it wasn't that easy. I was in labor for a good twelve hours. Given her parentage, I guess it wasn't too much of a surprise that she weighed over ten pounds.  
  
"She doesn't quite look like a Daisy," I said, looking at her wrinkled little face.  
  
Ron leaned over her, toying with her bright red hair, which had the unfortunate habit of sticking out in all directions. "She puts me in mind of those flowers Mum grows out by the picket fence," he said. "You know, the red and orange ones with lots of spiky little petals."  
  
We dug through our old Herbology books, looking for the name of the flowers he was thinking of.  
  
It was cool. It was unique. It was feminine. And it fit perfectly.  
  
We named her Zinnia.  
  
The next spring we planted zinnias in the flower beds in front of the porch.  
  
Thanks to Arthur's law, we knew we'd have to have another child sooner or later. Ron liked the spacing in his family—children had been born every two years or so. Our plan had been to have another child two and a half years after Zinnia.  
  
Of course, my life never went as planned. Fifteen months after Zinnia's birth, I gave birth to another daughter. She had a bit of trouble getting out—at twelve pounds, not to be wondered at—and was a little blue when she was born.  
  
We named her Lobelia, and a few months later those lovely blue flowers joined the zinnias in the front garden.  
  
When I was younger, I'd never thought much about having children, and it surprised me how much I enjoyed having babies in my house. By the time Lobelia was a year old, I started to yearn for another little one. Ron had grown up in a large family and was amenable to having another child.  
  
And so it was that over the years, we added quite a few children—and flowers—to the Weasley Gardens. Primula, Azalea, Camellia, Dahlia, and Gardenia were all born at intervals of about two years.  
  
Ron was pleased that he now had his own Quidditch team. We considered our family complete; fortunately, the gods had better plans for us. Four years after Gardenia's birth, I gave birth to a son.  
  
Myron is three now; tall for his age, solid in build, red-haired, Weasley to the core. He's affectionate; I think he's run up to me ten dozen times since I started writing this journal to announce, "I yuv you, Mama."  
  
As I sit here writing, all of a sudden, it strikes me. When I was a child, I wanted to be appreciated or even admired. I fantasized about people loving me. As I grew, I bullied, kissed up to people, sneaked around—in short, did everything I could think of to get into other people's good graces.  
  
And now, finally, I am appreciated and admired. I think fondly of the compliments I hear often—"You're a wonderful lover," "You're the best cook in the world, Mama," "You know more about Quidditch than anyone in the world," "You are the best Mama a girl could have."  
  
How did I get here? Not through scheming and machinations, but through love. Loving my family and doing my best to make them happy. In the course of exacting revenge, I found sweetness, but only by accident. The sweetness I found by loving was no coincidence.  
  
Remember that, my children, as you read this story. Remember it as you choose your path through life. The best choice you can ever make is to choose to love those around you.  
  
Your mother,  
  
Millie Weasley 


End file.
